


Show You How

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, SamSteve Gift Exchange 2017, Swing Dancing, brief (very brief!) mention of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: “I can’t dance,” Steve told Natasha, and she gave him a bright, dangerous grin.“Then I’ll just have to find you someone who can.”Now, a week later, Steve realized how foolish he’d been to think that she was kidding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tchalcons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tchalcons/gifts).



> Hope you like it!

Steve was in the middle of a particularly compelling documentary about Mikhail Gorbachev when his phone chirped, startling him. He glanced down, ready to ignore whatever it was and put the phone on silent, but he did a double take when he saw the email’s subject line in the notification bar.

_Thanks for Registering! Let’s Dance!_

Frowning, he paused the movie and unlocked his phone to read the message.

It was from the Wilson & Wilson Dance Studio, whatever that was, and contained registration details for solo swing lessons (Level 1) along with a note about the studio’s strict indoor shoe policy. At the bottom of the email was a logo of two dancers with wings, along with an address and phone number, highlighted in blue.

With a sigh, Steve tapped it with his thumb.

“Good afternoon, Wilson & Wilson Studio, how can I help you?” a pleasant female voice answered after two rings.

“Um, hi,” Steve began. “I just received an email from you guys, but I think it might have been a mistake?”

“Oh, sorry about that,” the woman replied. “Let me just check... Can I get your name, please?”

“Steve Rogers.”

There was a pause, but not the type of pause that Steve had come to expect when telling people his name — no gasp of surprise or exclamations of disbelief, which Steve appreciated. Instead, he just heard the sounds of typing, of papers rustling. While he waited, his phone buzzed against his cheek — a text message that he chose to ignore.

“Okay,” the woman said at last. “It’s not a mistake, I’ve got you down here for private swing lessons with Sam, beginning next week.”

“That... can’t be right,” Steve insisted. “It must be another Steve Rogers.”

A tiny laugh carried through the speaker. “I don’t think there are any other Steve Rogerses, sir.”

Steve pulled the phone away enough that he could expel a sigh without letting on to this kind woman that he was so frustrated.

“Well, I didn’t pay for this, so—”

“No, I’ve got a note here that your sister paid in person earlier today—”

“My sis— oh,” Steve said, when he caught on. _My soon-to-be-dead sister,_ he added silently. “Of course. How nice of her.”

“That’s right,” the woman confirmed, sounding willfully oblivious to Steve’s sarcasm. “So all you have to do is show up and bring your dancing shoes.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Steve said through a smile that was mostly teeth. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied cheerfully. “See you soon!”

Steve made a non-committal noise and disconnected. He started to dial again right away, when he remembered the text he’d received. Sure enough, it was from the person he was about to call.

 _don’t be mad,_ was all Nat said.

Steve rolled his eyes. _What did I tell you about meddling in my love life?_

_...wouldn’t you have to have a love life before I could meddle in it? ;)_

Steve sighed again, and pressed the green icon beside her name to call her.

“I know you’re technically 95, but that doesn’t mean you have to use a phone as a phone,” she greeted him.

“Natasha,” he began.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “Don’t bust out your disappointed voice, Steve, you know I can’t handle it.”

“Then don’t disappoint me,” Steve countered, knowing full well the tone he was using.

There was a beat of silence before Nat said simply, “I’m not apologizing.”

“Tasha,” Steve warned.

“It’s an early birthday present,” Natasha told him. “God, you practically asked for it.”

“I— what?” said Steve, distracted from his annoyance with her. “When?”

“Last week, in the training room? You asked me what a date was?”

Steve felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. “That is _not_ what I asked.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rogers,” Natasha replied breezily. “I was trying to do you a favor, you could at least give me a little credit for that.”

“Fine,” Steve sighed. “You get a little credit. For having good intentions despite roping me into something I did not want and didn’t ask for.”

“Thank you,” Nat said, all sweetness now. “And it’s only ten weeks. You’ve been on missions longer than that. I’m sure this will be a lot more fun than those.”

“Hm,” said Steve, not willing to grant her that just yet.

“And if it’s not, well, the instructor’s really hot.”

Steve shook his head, deciding to just let that one go.

“So, happy birthday,” Nat concluded in a bright sing-song.

“Thanks,” Steve said. “I think,” he added, after he’d hung up.

 _Pushy,_ he thought, as he got up off the couch and headed into the kitchen for a snack. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever had a friend so desperate for him to get a date. Even Bucky would just kind of nudge Steve in the general direction of girls, and when Steve inevitably struck out, he let it go with a fond, _Better luck next time, pal._ Bucky never held it against him when a girl didn’t catch Steve’s eye the same way she’d caught his; he was still the only person that Steve had told about how his tastes ran both ways.

Natasha, though... Steve hesitated to tell her about the other half of his sexuality, not because he thought she wouldn’t accept him, but because he feared she’d double her efforts at finding him a date, and that was really something that he could not handle right now.

Which is what he’d been trying to tell her when they were sparring last week in the training room, in the conversation that she’d wildly misinterpreted.

“What, exactly, do you think I’m going to do with all these women you keep trying to convince me to date?” he’d asked her, after what had to be six suggestions (on that day alone) of someone at SHIELD that he could go out with.

Natasha helped him to his feet — she’d knocked him flat with a surprise take-down from behind — and shrugged. “Coffee, movie, dinner. Dancing.”

“Dancing,” Steve repeated, rolling his shoulders. “You really think I can dance.”

It wasn’t a question, but Nat treated it like one just the same. “I’d be surprised if you couldn’t. I mean, have you ever really tried?”

 _Girls aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on_ , he almost said, _or a guy who might step on them_. But he kept his mouth shut. Dancing was too closely tied to the people he’d lost; that wound was still open and painful.

Thankfully, Natasha didn’t seem to notice Steve’s hesitation as she re-did her hand wraps. “It doesn’t even have to be a dating thing,” she was saying. “You could just dance for fun, like a hobby. Everybody needs a hobby.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, grateful to be changing topics. “What’s yours?”

Nat shrugged again. “I knit.”

Steve blinked once. Twice. “Bullshit.”

“I do,” Natasha insisted. “I joined an online forum and everything. Even made some friends.”

“Friends,” Steve repeated doubtfully. “Do they know anything real about you?”

“My point, Rogers,” Nat went on, overriding him, “is that you’re allowed to have things in your life that aren’t work-related. Go dancing, if that’s what you want to do.”

“I can’t dance,” Steve told her, and she gave him a bright, dangerous grin.

“Then I’ll just have to find you someone who can.”

Now, a week later, Steve realized how foolish he’d been to think that she was kidding.

He flopped back down on the couch with a sandwich and considered calling the studio again to cancel his enrolment. He wondered if they’d refund Nat’s money, thinking with a little vindictive pleasure that it would serve her right if they didn’t. He thought about it as he ate, scanning through the email again, noticing that there was an email address listed for the instructor, Sam, along with instructions to send along any questions or concerns.

 _What’s swing dance?_ he thought about asking, but then decided that that was probably a pretty rude thing to ask. He didn’t want to insult the poor woman, especially not before they’d even met in person.

In the end, he didn’t email. Didn’t call to cancel, either. He just put his phone on silent, like he was going to in the first place, and turned the movie back on.

* * *

The next morning he went to see Peggy, and was pleasantly surprised to find her out of bed, sipping tea from a floral-patterned cup and saucer in the sunroom. The homecare nurse led Steve in, but she didn’t need to tell Peggy who he was like she did some days. Peggy’s smile told him everything he needed to know; today was one of her good days.

“I warrant the good china, do I, Peg?” he asked, pouring himself some tea and settling on the sofa beside her wheelchair, close enough that he could take her hand.

“I use it every day,” Peggy said, in that slow thoughtful voice that it had taken Steve a long time to get used to. “Never did... before. Used to save it for a special occasion. Now I know better.”

 _Before what?_ Steve wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He found it was easier to let Peggy lead.

“Tell me what’s new in the world,” Peggy said a moment later, with another smile. “What are you reading nowadays?”

They chatted a while about Steve’s list, his adventures in the 21st century, until Peggy started to lose the thread of the conversation. Steve was just thinking maybe it was time to go when she interrupted and asked, “Have you got a girl?”

Steve shook his head, used to these sudden topic shifts. “No, Peg. No girl, except you.”

“Then what do you do with yourself?”

Steve fought back a grin. For a second, she’d sounded just like she used to, full of piss and vinegar. “Well, Natasha signed me up for a swing dance class.”

“She did, did she?” asked Peggy, even though Steve could tell that she’d forgotten who Nat was. “She get tired of you making excuses not to dance with her?”

“Something like that,” Steve chuckled.

“I wish you’d been here in the nineties, Steve,” Peggy said, sighing her way into another change of subject. “I thought of you always back then.”

Steve laid his hand over Peggy’s, rubbing the papery soft skin with his fingers. He hesitated, then finally asked, as gently as he could, “Why did you think of me, Peggy?”

“Swing,” she said simply. “It was suddenly all the rage. The orchestras, the fashion, the dancing — oh, you should have seen it.”

“What _is_ swing, anyway?” Steve asked.

“Find someone who can show you,” Peggy replied. She was frowning, like there was something more that she wanted to say, but she didn’t know quite what it was.

Steve knew. He could still hear her voice, crackling with static, over the radio in Schmitt’s plane: _I’ll show you how._ He’d never asked if she remembered it, too. He was afraid that if she didn’t, it would just upset both of them.

“There’s nothing stopping you now, Steve,” she said softly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it with surprising strength. “I wanted— I meant to tell you. Did I? Have I already said it?”

“Yeah, you did,” Steve started to say, because she had, and it never got any easier.

“There’s no reason not to, if you want to dance, Steve, because—”

“Shh,” he said, but she carried on.

“I didn’t wait,” she confessed, and her eyes were shining. “Steve, I didn’t— I—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Steve reassured her through the lump in his throat, squeezing her hand until she settled. “Peggy, it’s okay. I wouldn’t have wanted you to.” 

She stared at him, and Steve felt the strange guilt that came whenever he had to pretend to be his own ghost.

Eventually, she nodded, closed her eyes briefly. Steve took advantage of the moment to collect himself. No matter how many times they went through this, it still hurt.

When she opened her eyes, she was smiling again, and Steve reminded himself that this was a good day, that he had a lot to be grateful for.

“What do you think of my fine china?” Peggy asked a few moments later. “I use it every day. No reason to wait for a special occasion anymore.”

 _Message received, Pegs_ , Steve thought, as their conversation fell back into its circular patterns — a dance all its own.


	2. Chapter 2

Naturally, Steve was late for his first lesson.

The woman at the front desk didn’t seem to mind. She directed him to the second studio, which was down a deserted staircase — Steve supposed there wasn’t much demand for dance classes at 1 o’clock on a Wednesday.

He caught the sound of horns and bass playing an upbeat tune as he descended. Following the music felt weirdly familiar, like it was 1943 again, like he’d been caught up in a briefing with Philips, so the party had started without him. Like one of his teammates — probably Bucky, or maybe Dugan — would be waiting for him with a bottle of scotch that they knew wouldn’t get him drunk, but that never stopped them from trying. The only thing missing was the clink of glasses and the haze of cigarette smoke.

His foot was on the threshold of the doorway marked 2 when he realized with a jolt that the room wasn’t empty, and he stepped back. The two dancers didn’t seem to notice him; they were flying around the room, the woman — the instructor, Sam, Steve presumed — twisting and spinning, while the man — her client — guided her flawlessly in and out of each move. At one point he lifted her right off the floor, using her momentum to flip her up and over his arm, anchoring her spin and catching her when she wobbled on the landing.

It was captivating, like nothing that Steve had ever seen outside of the movies, but those dances in _Hellzapoppin_ had felt more sudden and energetic, like each move was improvised right there on the street. Sam and her partner were equally as fast, but smoother somehow, less like a pot boiling over.

She must be an excellent teacher, Steve thought.

He tore his eyes away before he could be caught spying, and was leaning against the wall when the song ended. A new one began, more softly, and Steve could hear the dancers’ voices, discussing flaws of the choreography that were too subtle for Steve to have noticed.

“We’ll get it,” the woman said, as the couple came through the door. “Competition’s not for a few weeks, anyway.”

“I know,” the man replied. He caught Steve’s eye and smiled faintly before turning back to the woman. “Go over it again on Saturday?”

“Sure,” said the woman, and she pulled him into a hug. “Bye, Sam.”

“See you later, Sharon,” he answered, and, before Steve had a chance to hide his surprise, the man was crossing the hall and extending his hand. “You must be my one o’clock. I’m Sam Wilson.”

“Uh,” said Steve, suddenly hearing the Smithsonian voiceover in his head — _the greatest tactical mind of the 20th century...._ “Steve Rogers,” Steve said finally, shaking the man’s hand.

“Yeah,” Sam said, sounding quietly amused. “I kinda put that together. You ready to dance?” Steve hesitated, and Sam gave him a wry smile. “Don’t worry, we’re not doing anything nearly as complicated as what you just saw.”

“Seemed pretty intense,” Steve agreed.

“This is just Level 1,” Sam told him, gesturing for Steve to go ahead of him into the studio. Sam closed the door behind them. “I don’t even teach it anymore, except in very special circumstances. You can change your shoes there,” he added, pointing to a bench along the wall.

“Thanks,” said Steve, sitting down to do just that. “So, Captain America taking a dance class—?”

“That qualifies as a special circumstance,” Sam finished for him. He headed over to the stereo equipment and turned the music off. “What made you decide to do this, anyway? I thought you’d already know these steps.”

Steve scoffed. “Not exactly. And I didn’t really decide to do this so much as my friend signed me up without telling me. So, I don’t have much of a choice.”

Sam was looking at him strangely. “Of course you do,” he said, sounding surprised and maybe a little offended.

Which was fair, Steve supposed. He’d just sounded as excited about Sam’s passion as most people sounded about a trip to see the dentist or the firing squad.

“Sorry,” he said as he got to his feet. “I’m guess I’m just nervous.”

Sam grinned. “Don’t worry, old timer, I’ll go easy on you.”

Taken aback, Steve laughed. “Oh, that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” Sam assured him.

Steve smiled, feeling something deep inside his chest loosen up a little. Nobody nowadays, except maybe Natasha, would give him shit like this, like his team used to. Steve decided he liked it.

He followed Sam to the center of the room, watching closely as he demonstrated the components of the basic step. Steve started to mirror the movements, but then Sam stopped him.

“Sorry,” he interrupted himself. “I forgot to ask— I assume you want to learn the lead role, right? I figured that’s what you’d be used to.”

“I’m not used to anything,” Steve admitted. “I’ve never really danced before.”

Sam paused. “Well, in opposite-sex pairings, the guy usually leads.”

“And if we’re both guys?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Sam replied with a shrug. “I can teach you either. Follow’s maybe a little easier to learn, but—”

“Then I’ll follow,” Steve decided.

Sam’s eyes widened. “You sure?”

Steve frowned slightly. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

“No,” Sam said, in a tone that meant the opposite. “I just— I don’t know, man, I figured you’d be worried about your image or something.”

Steve’s frown deepened. “My image?”

Sam gave him a tight smile. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want people to get the idea that you’re, uh... feminine.”

Steve blinked, then snorted. “I don’t give a shit about that. There’s nothing wrong with being feminine.”

Sam was looking surprised again. “Okay,” he said finally. “But if you ever change your mind, just let me know. I swing both ways, so—” He stopped, hung his head with a self-deprecating huff of laughter. “That didn’t come out right.”

“Either that or you came out just fine,” Steve offered, aiming for the easy, joking tone they’d had earlier. Sam smiled, so Steve must’ve got something right, but his eyes were still cautious.

“Not quite,” Sam said. “I’m gay, actually, so— not so much with the both ways.” He hesitated, biting a little at his bottom lip. “That won’t be a problem, will it? I mean, the news always talks about you like you’re some old grandpa, like—”

“Like queer people were invented in 2010,” Steve finished for him, and Sam chuckled again. “No, it won’t be a problem, Sam,” Steve reiterated earnestly.

 _In fact,_ he almost went on, but he bit his tongue. He barely knew Sam, after all, and Sam’s identification of his own orientation was for his own safety. He had no way of knowing how Steve would react, after all. And, as much as Steve wanted to reassure Sam, and make sure that Sam knew he was safe with him, Steve’s sexuality wasn’t Sam’s burden to bear. Not when Steve hadn’t even told his closest friends yet. What if the press found out that Steve was coming here? What if they hounded Sam and turned his life upside down, begging him day and night for scraps of information? What if — and this was a sickening thought — Sam wasn’t what he seemed, and he sought out the paparazzi willingly?

While Steve was deliberating — and, emphasis on the _berating_ part for thinking the worst of someone he’d known for less than half an hour — the moment for sharing passed, and Sam went back to teaching Steve about carrying his weight on the balls of his feet without bouncing up.

“Instead, think about dropping your weight down into the ground,” Sam said, demonstrating with exaggerated movements. Steve copied him until Sam deemed him ready to move on.

“Good, okay,” he said. “Now for the partner positions. There’s two basic positions: open and closed. Open is easy, and closed— here, it’s easier just to show you.” Sam came around to stand on Steve’s left. “See how our feet are in a V? This isn’t like ballroom, where you’re square across from each other, and we’re not side-by-side like a line dance because I wouldn’t be caught dead doing that shit.”

Steve laughed, even though he wasn’t sure what a line dance was.

“So now give me your right hand,” Sam instructed. Steve offered it, and Sam took it with both of his, shaping it into an almost claw-like curve. Then he rested it in his left hand, not holding, exactly, but with enough tension between their fingers to keep them together.

“Think Barrel of Monkeys,” Sam told him. “Keep your hand just curled enough to hang on. Got it?”

“I think so,” Steve nodded. “But what’s Barrel of Monkeys?”

Sam looked up, startled, and let their hands fall away from each other. “You don’t— huh,” he said. “Normally it’s just kids that ask me that. You really don’t know?” Steve shrugged. “Barrel of Monkeys is a game that came out in the sixties, I think? You have this barrel, and—”

“Let me guess, it’s full of monkeys?” Steve interrupted.

Sam shot him an exasperated but fond look. “You know what, smartass, never mind. You can Google it.”

Steve just laughed. Sam took his hand again and put it back in his.

“So, now I put my right hand on your shoulder blade. Here—” Sam’s hand landed exactly where he said it would. Steve tried not to jump at the strange, sudden closeness. “And you put your left hand....”

Steve stopped listening and just let Sam move his hand where it was supposed to be. There was a gentleness in his touch that warmed Steve. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had handled him like he was something fragile, or the last time he’d let someone do it. All of the touch he experienced anymore was violent, or at least a little rough around the edges.

This wasn’t like that. This, with Sam, was different, and he couldn’t say why.

“Something wrong?” Sam asked.

Steve looked up from the sharp contrast of his hand on Sam’s dark red shirt and found Sam’s brown eyes intently focused on him. Cassiterite, Steve thought suddenly, thinking of the minerals that he’d seen the last time he went to the museum. The color and texture had caught him off-guard —hadn't seemed like rock at all. More like a living organism, moving and breathing, its patterns shifting in the light. Now Sam’s eyes were doing the same thing, and Steve’s hand was on him, so he knew Sam was warm to the touch and moving, breathing the same air Steve was.

He was beautiful, Steve realized.

“Steve?” Sam prompted, letting go of him and stepping back.

“Sorry,” Steve said, shaking his head to clear it.

Sam was frowning. “Are you all right? Do you need to stop?”

“No,” Steve replied, almost too readily. “No, I guess I just tuned out or something,” he explained, because he couldn’t tell Sam the truth — that his touch had made Steve feel a little lost. Or maybe found.

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. He brought his hands forward, telegraphing all of his movements. “So you’re good to carry on?”

Steve nodded, and they went back to closed position, Sam’s touch gradually going from dizzying to simply nice. They did a few basic steps together, Sam guiding them in a slow tour of the studio. Steve still felt awkward, about as graceful as a bumblebee hitting a screen door, but it got easier, especially after Sam made a comment about how Steve could really cut a rug.

Steve tried not to laugh. He tried very hard. But it burst out of him, and he had to stop to lean on Sam for support. He already felt solid and almost familiar under Steve’s hands, and thinking of that made Steve even more giddy.

“Do you have any idea how cheesy you sound?” he asked finally.

Sam just grinned. “Mission accomplished.” Steve shot him a curious look, so Sam went on. “I was just trying to get you to relax,” he explained. “I’ll take being a bit corny if it means you start actually having fun. You’re stiff as a board, man.”

It took serious effort to bite back the dirty joke that he would have made with Bucky and the Commandos. He wasn’t sure how Sam would take it, so he just shook his head.

“Thanks,” he settled for saying.

“Hey, you’re welcome,” Sam answered. He crossed the room to fiddle with the laptop hooked up to the speakers. “This was my plan B,” he said, as the orchestration started to swell. “It’s nice and slow, easy to feel the rhythm for your steps. May I have this dance?” he asked, offering a hand.

“All right,” said Steve, though his cheeks were burning.

“Here we go,” said Sam, shifting his weight from leg to leg, bringing Steve along with him until they were in synch. “And five, six, five-six-seven-eight....”

They’d danced a few steps before the lyrics started—

 _Never thought that you would be standing here so close to me_  
_There’s so much I feel like I should say,_  
_But words can wait_  
_Until some other day._

—and Steve thought to ask, “What is this song?”

“I thought you’d like it,” Sam replied. “It’s about the end of the war.”

“Oh,” Steve said, pleased that Sam would think to play a song that he might like.

“The end of your war, I should say,” Sam added after a moment. “Not mine.”

“Your—?” Steve repeated, before it sunk in. “You’re a vet.”

“Fifty-eighth pararescue,” Sam said, not without some pride. “And now I’m doing this.”

“Oh,” Steve said again.

He waited, wondering if Sam was going to elaborate, but he didn’t, and Steve decided that asking about his service might be too personal for their first class. Also, he really did like the song and didn’t want to talk over it.

 _Haven’t felt like this, my dear, since can’t remember when_  
_It’s been a long, long time..._

Dancing was a lot easier with music, even though Steve felt perpetually half a step behind. Thankfully, Sam was good enough to make up for Steve’s shortcomings, and Steve didn’t fall flat on his face, so, all in all, he thought he did okay.

“Pretty good,” Sam told him, when the song faded out — it even had the scratchy dead air at the end, just like a real record. He let Steve go, which made something in Steve’s chest fall a little, and headed across the room to silence the next song mid-note. “Not bad for your first time.”

“Thanks,” Steve replied, feeling his cheeks heat again with pleased embarrassment. He wished he didn’t flush so easily.

Other parts of him were hot, too, he realized — his back, where Sam had been holding him, his forearm, which had been lying alongside Sam’s, and the palm of his right hand, which was slightly sweaty from being half-enclosed by Sam’s left.

“Let’s call it a day,” Sam said, and Steve headed to the bench to change his shoes.

“Any homework, Teach?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Sure,” said Sam. “I want you to put a sticky note on your bathroom mirror that says, _Relax_.” Steve looked up in surprise, and Sam shrugged. “You’re here to have fun, remember?”

“Right,” Steve said after a moment, unable to fight the small, exasperated smile that was creeping across his face as he thought about what Natasha would say to this. Maybe she’d already had this conversation with Sam when she paid for the class. “I’ll work on that.”

“Great. See you next week, Steve,” Sam said as he led him back up the stairs to the main floor.

“Good to meet you, Sam,” Steve replied, shaking his hand again. “Thanks for the dance.”

“If that’s what you wanna call dancing,” Sam answered, not missing a beat.

“You’ll have to show me the real deal sometime, then,” Steve parried back, only realizing when Sam’s eyes widened what that had sounded like.

But Sam smiled, looking flattered and not at all offended by Steve’s unintentional flirting. “Maybe I will,” he said speculatively, as he turned back to go down the stairs again. “When you can keep up.”


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks flew by, with Fury sending Steve on missions almost constantly. He was always taking off somewhere, often with Rumlow and STRIKE, always with Natasha. He saw more of the world in two months than he had in two years during the war. He liked it; it was good to keep busy, even if he sometimes had questions about what, precisely, his missions were accomplishing, but after his first lesson with Sam, he marched up to Fury’s office to request that he have Wednesdays off, permanently.

Fury was surprisingly amenable to the idea — Steve had a feeling that Nat got to him — and Wednesday quickly became the highlight of his week.

“It’s not just the dancing,” he told Peggy, the night after his seventh lesson. “Though that is nice.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Peggy replied, with one of those smiles that told him she saw right through him. “What else is it?”

“It’s... everything,” Steve said, realizing as he did that that wasn’t very explanatory. “The touch, the movement, the trust.”

Peggy waited, still smiling, until Steve relented and told her about how it took him a few lessons to realize that he didn’t have to be in charge, that he was safe following Sam’s lead. There were still times that he forgot, times when he didn’t take the touch cues properly, or when he added a step because he wasn’t sure that Sam would be where he was supposed to be, but Sam always was.

 _You’re trying to lead when what you have to do is trust me enough to follow,_ he said, when he taught Steve how to fall back into closed position after a turn. _I’ll catch you, I promise._

“Sounds like it’s a weight off your shoulders,” Peggy commented, when Steve finished. “Sounds like you’re relaxing.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. He grinned. “Sam did tell me to, after all.”

Peggy laughed softly, but Steve could tell she was tired. A few minutes later, she got him to help her move from the sofa to the bed, and as Steve fluffed her pillow, she asked, “Who’s Sam?”

“Sam’s my dance instructor, Peg,” Steve reminded her.

Peggy hummed, her eyes closing. “Sounds like he’s a lot more than that, darling.”

* * *

It was the ninth week, and Steve still wasn’t very good.

He’d thought that he was getting there, he knew his feet knew all the moves, but after his conversation with Peggy, he’d started to notice things about Sam that kept distracting him. Like how his pants hugged the curve of his ass — had they always been that tight? — and how he licked his bottom lip right before he took Steve’s hand to pull him into the dance. Steve had started to notice things about himself, too, like the way that his skin seemed to tingle whenever Sam touched him, how he always hated letting Sam go at the end of the lesson.

And whenever he thought about these things, his feet got tangled, and he lost the rhythm completely.

“Relax,” Sam said, when Steve stopped for what had to be the fifth time that hour. “What’s got you so wound up today?”

“Nothing,” Steve replied automatically. “Just— overthinking it.”

Sam hummed in agreement as he led them in their weight shifts to get the beat back. The music was very different today, much more modern, but still with that slow, syncopated rhythm that Sam needed to teach the dance. Steve couldn’t remember what the song was called, but he liked it.

“Dancing helps with that, if you let it turn your brain off,” Sam reminded him. “Let’s go again— five, six, five-six-seven-eight....”

 _I come up hard baby, but now I'm cool_  
_I didn't make it sugar, playin' by the rules...._

“When did you start dancing?” Steve asked, once he’d gone enough steps to feel confident distracting himself with conversation.

“Parents put me in lessons when I was five, and I did it all through school,” Sam answered, sending Steve into a smooth left side pass. “But I only really got into it three years ago, after my second tour of duty.”

“Did you miss it, while you were over there?”

Sam held up his palm for a stop turn, and Steve caught the flash of a thoughtful expression on Sam’s face before he spun. “A little,” Sam admitted. “But when I signed up, it was like I put that part of myself in a box and shoved it under the bed. Pretty much forgot about it.”

Sam sent him on a right-side pass that landed them back into closed position. His momentum was synced exactly to Steve’s, so much so that Steve barely felt the change when Sam caught him.

 _What people say, that's okay, they don't bother me, no_  
_I'm ready to make it, don't care 'bout the weather_  
_Don't care 'bout no trouble, got myself together_  
_Laughin', no cryin', my protection's all around me...._

“But you’re so good at it,” Steve protested. “How could you—”

Sam huffed out a laugh. “You mean you never hid any parts of yourself when you signed up?”

Steve considered the question as Sam led him in a few more tours of the dance floor. He thought about trying to enlist, with a different last name and hometown each time. _Oh, you’re from Paramus, now,_ he could practically hear Bucky drawl. And then there were the questions asked by the psych doctors after Erskine had approved him but before he started training. He hadn’t lied, exactly, when the doc asked him how he felt about men sleeping with men, but he hadn’t volunteered any information, either.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sam said. The song faded out, and he let Steve go. He stayed close, but his eyes were far away.

“I lost my wingman, Riley,” he said finally, like it was a confession or maybe poison being drawn out of him. “An RPG knocked him out of the sky one night, right beside me. Nothing I could do. It was like I was up there just to watch.”

Steve swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “I know a little of what that’s like.”

Sam nodded. “Thought you might.” He drew in a deep breath and almost smiled. “After that, I couldn’t really find a reason to go on.”

 _Go on fighting,_ Steve wondered, _or living?_ He didn’t dare ask, but Sam sent him a look like he’d read the thought off Steve’s face.

“My therapist suggested I go back to something I loved before I signed up,” Sam went on, “and, believe it or not, I never even thought of dancing until my sister mentioned it. She’d come into some money, wanted to start this place up like she always talked about when we were kids. Three years later, here we are.”

“Back in the world,” said Steve.

“Something like that,” Sam agreed, and he smiled.

Steve loved it when Sam smiled; that was something else he’d noticed these last few weeks. Sam radiated warmth and light, and Steve wanted nothing more than to bask in his sun. _Just ask him out,_ Nat would shout if she knew were there and if she knew what Steve was going through. But she wasn’t there, and Steve just wasn’t good at this sort of thing.

So he let Sam teach him another move without further conversation, and they practiced until Steve’s hour was up. As Sam crossed the room to switch off the music, Steve realized that now was the time, if he was going to do it. He hesitated, but when Sam didn’t turn around, he sank to the bench and changed his shoes, all the while practicing sentences in his head.

 _Wanna grab a bite to eat, Sam?_ It sounded so easy when he said it silently.

Unfortunately, his phone chimed in his pocket before he could force the words out of his throat.

He pulled it out right away — it was set so only priority messages made a sound, which meant that this was probably a big deal. Sure enough, there was a note from Nat to meet him at the curb in five minutes for a mission extraction. He sighed, and he looked up to find that Sam was approaching him curiously.

“I gotta go,” Steve was forced to say, instead of his grand proposition.

“World in peril?” Sam asked, with a wry twist to his mouth.

“God, I hope not,” Steve replied, forgetting for a second that he maybe shouldn’t be so honest in front of a civilian.

“Well, be careful,” Sam said.

He moved closer, like he was going to give Steve a hug, but he redirected at the last second into a handshake. Steve tried not to look as disappointed as he felt.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “It's our last class.”

“Yeah,” Steve echoed faintly, but he didn’t turn away.

It felt like the air between them was thick, charged like before a storm. Sam was close enough that Steve could practically feel his body heat, smell that scent that had become so familiar these last weeks. More than familiar, Steve realized; Sam smelled _good_. Steve only had to take one step, and he’d be back in Sam’s capable arms. A few inches more than that, and Steve could find out what Sam’s lips tasted like, and why he kept licking them.

He moved a fraction of an inch forward, and Sam moved, too. Almost there now, just a little—

His phone went off again, and that did it for Steve.

“Fuck it,” he whispered. He didn’t let himself hesitate, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips against Sam’s for one quick moment.

He flinched a little as he pulled back, but Sam didn’t let him go far. He took Steve’s right hand, like they were going into the open position, but he pulled like he never had before, until Steve was right where he wanted to be, snug in Sam’s arms, discovering that Sam kissed the same way he danced — confident but gentle, guiding Steve out of his thoughts and into a sweet relaxation that Steve had forgotten was possible.

When they separated, Sam’s cassiterite eyes were as warm as the rest of him. A slow, gorgeous smile was spreading across his face.

“All this time I’ve been dropping hints and wearing my tight pants,” he said, “when what you actually needed was a disaster.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, feeling his face go hot. Sam laughed and kissed him again, before he started to lead Steve out the hall and up to the lobby. 

“Go on,” he said, when they’d reached the curb where Natasha’s black sports car was idling. “We’ll pick this up another time.”

 “Okay,” he replied, still dazed. “I’ll see you later.”

“You bet you will,” Sam promised him.

Steve stepped back, taking Sam’s hand with him as long as he could before he let it drop, then turned and got into the car.

“How was dance?” Natasha asked, smirking.

“Fun,” he answered, smiling out the window at Sam, who was standing under a tree in front of the studio.

“Glad to hear it,” Nat said, and it sounded like she really meant it.

Steve watched Sam in the rear view mirror until they turned a corner. An apprehensive, almost queasy feeling settled in his stomach as soon as Sam was out of sight. As Natasha started telling him about the mission they were heading to, he had a curious feeling like he’d never see Sam again, or if he did, it would never be the same.


	4. Coda

Everything — absolutely everything — hurt, but the music was nice.

_There’s only three things for sure:_   
_Taxes, death, and trouble._   
_This I know, baby._   
_This I know, baby...._

Steve knew the song from somewhere, had some sort of positive association with it — had he been dreaming? Something pleasant, love songs drifting over warm water, Peggy watching Sam spin him, pull him into sweetheart position, and Bucky—

Steve’s eyes snapped open, and his sharp inhalation yanked at the places where his best friend had shot him. So many places, but they were healed enough, why couldn’t he get free of this bed? He had to move, he had to get out there and find him, save him, stop him, before—

“Easy, easy,” said a familiar voice to Steve’s right. “Steve, settle yourself, you’re gonna pop a stitch. Maybe all your stitches.”

Steve stopped, turned as far as he could, given the tubes and restraints. “Sam,” he said, and Sam smiled.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replied. “Now sit still and let me untangle you.”

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled. His mouth wasn’t working too well, and his lips were sore and tight. “Where— are you okay?”

Sam nodded. “Nothing that a rest won’t cure.”

“And how long—?” Steve started to ask.

Sam held up four fingers. “Four days. You went into a coma,” he replied, and for the first time he sounded less than steady. “Doctors weren’t really sure what to do with you other than let you sleep. I can’t imagine they see too many super soldiers in here.”

Steve could tell that Sam was trying to keep the mood light, but he didn’t have to. He reached over and took Sam’s left hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I dragged you back into this, and—”

“Hush,” Sam instructed. He shifted, bringing his chair closer to the bed. “I could’ve said no when a wanted man showed up at my studio, but I didn’t.”

“And your sister?” Steve asked. There hadn’t been a HYDRA presence at the studio that he could see, but that didn’t mean—

“No trouble,” Sam reassured him. “Guys in suits came by while we were out getting Sitwell, but she deleted your record, and Nat paid in cash, so there was nothing for them to find.”

“Good,” Steve sighed.

The relief, and with it the fear of what might have been, was overwhelming. It was bad enough that he’d gotten Sam involved in this mess and nearly killed; the last thing he wanted was for another person to pay the price for being close to him. Too many already had.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, as Steve’s eyes spilled over against his will. “It’s okay, everything’s all right.”

“No, it’s—” Steve shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could say the name behind his lips, but he had to ask, he had to know.

“Barnes hasn’t resurfaced yet,” Sam murmured, like he’d read Steve’s mind. “But somebody pulled you out of the river. There aren’t any prints. Tasha tells me that’s to be expected, what with him being a ghost and all.”

Everything hurt too much to chuckle like he wanted to, but he exhaled and mostly managed a smile — Sam seemed to get the idea.

“Let me call the nurse, see if we can’t get rid of some of this pain, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, and he let Sam’s hand go. He was exhausted from the conversation, from being awake. “I like your music,” he slurred, “but I can’t dance to it.”

Sam laughed enough for both of them as he got to his feet and pressed a button on the side of Steve’s bed. He ducked in, kissed his forehead, the only place on Steve’s face that didn’t feel like a giant bruise.

“You can’t dance to anything,” he teased.

_Show me how,_ Steve wanted to say, but his eyes were already closing. No matter, he realized. Sam would. 


End file.
